In the afternoons, C.J. would read to Lady Wickham until it began to grow dark. Her ladyship was a miser even with her own candles. In her parsimony she preferred the tapers soaked in animal fat, which emitted a suetlike odor, but even those were rarely lit. Most often, when the light had fully waned, her ladyship pronounced it time to retire. Otherwise, C.J.’s responsibilities as an amanuensis were relatively infrequent, although the mistress of the house corresponded with a sister in Manchester. C.J. was indeed a lady’s companion, but the scope of her duties in Lady Wickham’s employ was by no means limited to the tasks required of that station.
The only pleasant part of the week was Sunday morning, when the old lady expected her servants to follow her to church. The staff was not accorded a second set of clothes, and, of necessity, found small ways in which to make their humble garments fine enough to celebrate the Lord’s Day. Cook, Mary, and C.J. removed their aprons and caps. Tony’s livery, such as it was, looked enough like a tradesman’s clothes for Lady Wickham to determine that he did not even require another coat for church. The manservant never paid much mind to honoring the day of the Lord: Tony used the sermons as an opportunity to sleep. Mary followed the service like a dumb animal, joining in the hymns when the congregation was asked to lift their voices in song, but she never picked up a hymnal or Bible. Lady Wickham was also too penurious to purchase a pew, the common practice among the gentry, so despite her station, she shared seats with her servants at the back of the Abbey, places that were set aside for the lower orders of society.
C.J. cherished the rare opportunity to dwell in her thoughts while the sermons and homilies were given, often by visiting preachers. While they nattered on in self-important, stentorian tones, she studied the magnificent stained glass and the ceiling’s uncommon fan vaulting, and mused upon the astonishing fact that the atmosphere, rather than being devotional, seemed more like a marriage mart, where meaningful glances and billets-doux were routinely exchanged among the congregants.
For a woman who reportedly took to beating her servants at the slightest provocation—although C.J. had yet to witness such vile behavior—Lady Wickham was quite the devout Christian on Sunday mornings.
Sunday afternoons were another occasion altogether. While Lady Wickham most frequently dined alone, she did receive guests for Sunday dinner, an event that entailed the entire staff’s participation. Turtle soup was all the rage in the best households, but the mistress of number twelve Laura Place was of the decidedly stinting sort; therefore, mock turtle soup was prepared.
C.J. was horribly squeamish the first time she, along with Mary, helped Cook prepare the soup stock. Rather than shelling, chopping, and potting a terrapin, which C.J. admitted would probably have caused her to lose her appetite forever—delicacy or no delicacy—they used leftover mutton on the bone, from meals eaten during the early part of the week, which had been stored in an ice chest in a cellar twenty-five feet below the kitchen.
Depending on what the butcher was selling more cheaply, either a boned calf’s head or veal knuckles were placed in a saucepan and simmered with the mutton stock along with some lemon juice and vegetables.
To C.J.’s mind, the most disgusting part of the preparation—at least as nauseating as decapitating an actual turtle—fell to Cook herself, who, after straining the stock, trimmed and diced the gelatinous meat of the calf’s head, setting it aside. Meanwhile, C.J., who had become quite adept at separating eggs with naught but her cupped hands, whisked two egg whites in the calfless saucepan. When the egg whites boiled, they formed a thick scum, the mere sight of which made C.J. queasy.
Cook then lined a sieve with a heavy cloth, and Mary and C.J. hefted the saucepan and strained its contents through the sieve into a bowl, thence transferring it back to the saucepan. That task accomplished, Cook, who was the only one of Lady Wickham’s servants permitted the key to the liquor cabinet, unlocked a chest and withdrew a bottle of Madeira, which she poured into the stock, grumbling all the while that a proper mock turtle soup called for at least a cup of the Portuguese fortified wine, but that Lady Wickham’s parsimony prohibited her from adding a drop more than half the recommended amount. Apparently, as C.J. observed, Cook had long ago decided that such prohibition did not extend to fortifying herself from the cut-crystal decanter, and she supposed her stingy mistress would be none the wiser.
After Cook scraped the diced meat back into the saucepan and tossed in some fresh parsley, she would taste it, proclaiming each week that the soup would be vastly improved with the additional half cup of Madeira.
Usually, after the Sunday suppers, the servants had the chance to retire earlier than on the other days, although Lady Wickham frequently asked C.J. to accompany her to the parlor and read to her after the meal. The old woman had a fondness for Dante and for Shakespeare’s epic poetry, such as Venus and Adonis, which afforded C.J. the chance to read that particular work for the first time. A woman who appreciated Shakespeare, particularly his lesser-known efforts, couldn’t be all bad, C.J. reasoned.
C.J. infused her readings with drama and passion. After all, it was her only chance to do anything remotely like acting, and it gave her some comfort to know that Lady Wickham did appear to enjoy the performances. Her ladyship would sit straight as a ramrod in a high-backed chair, her misshapen appendage resting on a footstool covered with a petit point tapestry
